Shotgun Jenny's
by TarynWanderer
Summary: Pre-academy, Jim was a stripper. Amongst other things. Kirk/McCoy SLASH.


James T Kirk was not known for his ability to hold a job. He wasn't known for his punctuality, commitment to service, or work ethic. He was known for running his mouth off, being too smart for his own good (or for the level of work required), and showing up for shifts hungover, drunk, or stoned.

When he showed up at all.

He had lost every customer service job he had had since he was fourteen (except for the ones he just walked out on), three mechanics' garages (too many fights with idiotic co-workers), roughnecking on two gas wells in two different towns (dead industry anyway), a couple farm hand gigs (whatever), and the construction site his stepdad had set him up on (fuck you, Frank).

Luckily Shotgun Jenny's didn't care about any of that crap. Shotgun Jenny herself, a shrewd chain-smoking lady in her sixties who had seen all the scummy parts of Iowa that Jim had, just several times over, took one look at his hard body and his pretty face and his arrogant swagger and had given him a job. Top billing, too.

"Ya think you're too good for this place," she told him one night when he was getting dressed. "Everybody thinks that. That's why the customers like ya, 'cause they think they might be able to break ya," she winked at him and lit another cigarette.

Shotgun Jenny was one to talk, though. She had been trying for fifty years to be an _actress_.

Fucken _whatever_.

It paid a lot more than any of those other crap lousy jobs, all the roughneck townies and servicemen and gownies (red-suited Starfleet Academy tools), who were all lonely and drunk and throwing credits like they'd never see a naked man again in their lives. They sort of made Jim sick, but he had enough money to finally move out of his stepdad's (fuck you, Frank), and get his own bike, and that felt good.

Jim Kirk was twenty-two and adult enough to know that he would never be like his real father. He was adult enough to stop staring at the stars and keep his head on the ground with all the dirt and the plains and flatness that surrounded him. He was starting to be able to deal with that.

Maybe he'd save up enough money to go to school or something. Whatever.

So anyway, once Jim realized he was a damn good stripper, and had figured out how to spin on that fucken pole, he put all that previously reckless energy into moving gracefully and manfully and beautifully, and raked in the credits, which let him drink at other, straight joints and pick up chicks. Which is all he really wanted right now. Everything is part of the sex trade if you think about it, he would say to himself.

(He didn't know how handy all these moves would come in ten years down the line on alien planets populated by females, but that's not the point of the story. Nice bonus for him, though.)

-

Leonard McCoy would never admit this out loud, but he was depressed. He felt lower than a snake's belly in a wheel rut. He was freshly divorced, still financially reeling, still adjusting to a new career (which involved his worst fucking fear, FYI, space travel), and still wondering how the hell it all came to this.

And he was utterly, utterly alone.

McCoy found himself in some backwater town in Iowa, a week early of meeting his transport to Starfleet Academy on the West Coast, and ended up being acquainted with every strip joint in town. And at every strip joint in town he had sat unaffected and annoyed. He tried not to think that she had ruined all women for all time for him, because thoughts like that bred serial killers, but it was hard not to feel it. If he couldn't get turned on by these women, how would he ever be turned on by anyone again?

So he ended up at Shotgun Jenny's, which was the only strip joint in town he hadn't tried yet. He took one step inside and realized it was a fag joint. Well, you win some you lose some. He was too tired to turn back to his room, too sober to not drink, and too lonely to not be surrounded by noise and strangers. McCoy manned up and sat down.

The first two dancers were, in two words, disgustingly macho. Oversized muscles and oiled skin. McCoy sat there with a look on his face like his beer was made of pig's piss (which it tasted like anyways).

He was about ready to leave when the third dancer of the night, and apparently the headlining act if the crowd's reaction was anything to go by, was announced.

In all seriousness, his stage name was "Tiberius."

Ridiculous.

But then the boy came on stage and McCoy was fit to be tied. Or in his words:

Well Shut. My. Mouth.

"Tiberius" was masculine in a completely appropriate way, the way that comes from hard work out in the country (which McCoy could appreciate), lean muscles and sunkissed skin. He swaggered onto the stage like he had just happened to be in the neighbourhood and could maybe fit in one little dance, but he really didn't _need_ any of this attention.

He slipped off his shirt first, leaving only bare feet and tight black jeans. The men in the crowd whooped and hollered, and Tiberius sneered openly at most of them, like he didn't even _want_ their piddlin' credits, before grabbing the pole with his lean, toned arms and doing a lazy spin.

McCoy sat forward, against his better judgement, and consciously sucked back saliva. He was torn between feeling uglier than homemade soap in the presence of this boy, and being utterly and completely turned on.

Tiberius stood up on long legs and sauntered lazily down the catwalk, hips swaying to the beat of the music, and stopped in front of McCoy. The boy (he couldn't have been that much younger than McCoy, but he couldn't help thinking of him that way), ran his tongue around his open-mouthed smirk and winked at McCoy. His fingers played idly with the fly of his jeans. The men in the crowd howled.

McCoy shifted in his seat, his ornery erection pressing against his own trousers. Tiberius stared at him, swaying those fucking hips, waiting. Men were screaming.

With shaky hands McCoy found his wallet in his jacket, and threw some credit chips onto the stage, without even looking to see what denominations they were in. Tiberius smiled knowingly, and down came the jeans.

To reveal miles of nothing but hard, glistening skin.

-

So this stupid gownie wasn't as bad as the rest, really, Jim thought as he let his jeans slide down his hips. He wasn't wearing the tools' red suit, but he noticed a Starfleet insignia on an ID card in his wallet when the gownie whipped out his credit chips. His very generous amount of credit chips.

Jim smirked to himself as put his hands over his head and weaved around the stage, knowing that he was considerably more graceful than the other dancer. Unlike these tools, he actually danced with _girls_ when he got the chance, and they all liked it too.

Jim went back to the pole and heaved himself up, and around, and upside down, and more credit chips littered the stage. When he whipped himself back upright he made a point of catching the gownie's eyes, and smiling, and then lowering his own eyes. When he saw the gownie again he was obviously so close to coming in his own pants that Jim knew he had him hooked.

After tonight he could probably take a week off.

-

McCoy reckoned he was about ready to pop. He felt a brief sense of loss as Tiberius was cheered off the stage, blowing a few arrogant kisses and winks to the crowd, sweeping up his piles of credit chips. It was replaced by confusion when the boy caught his eye from behind the curtain and made a "get yer ass over here" gesture. Then he disappeared.

A small, matronly woman came over and took McCoy's arm. "He wants you to join him, privately, sugar," she said. "You got any credits left?"

McCoy's brain was overloaded. "Um, yeah."

"Good. Here, whiskey's on the house," she pressed a half-full bottle into his hands as she dragged him to an unnoticeable door. "Have fun, sugar."

McCoy found himself in a smallish room, which felt cold compared to the sweaty bordello atmosphere in the main room. A few musty old couches took up most of the space, and on one lounged Tiberius, fiddling once again with the fly of his jeans like it was a burden to even have to wear clothes.

"Hey," the boy said, and McCoy almost came from that alone.

"Um," he said eloquently, but Tiberius was already up. He took the bottle of whiskey and drank a large dram from it.

"So," the boy said matter of factly, then he set the bottle down on the floor and pushed McCoy onto one of the couches.

"Hey-" McCoy started.

"Look, I don't wanna be here all night," Tiberius said, settling in on the floor between McCoy's legs. He ran rough hands over McCoy's thighs. "How much money do you have left?"

"Uh," McCoy stammered, reaching shakily for his wallet again. He opened it and showed Tiberius what was inside.

"That's good," the boy said. "That'll get you far," he did that open mouth smirk again and kissed McCoy's cheek (which sounds more innocent than it was). He pressed his face all the way down McCoy's chest and stomach and ended up at his fly. Which he opened. With his teeth.

McCoy didn't know whether he was going to come or go blind.

It had just been so long since anyone had touched him.

-

The gownie had a _nice_ cock, Jim reflected, and he had seen a fair few since starting at Shotgun Jenny's, so it wasn't going to be such a bad shift.

He _did_ like sucking cock.

His stepdad had sometimes joked that Jim wasn't worth anything but his pretty face, and who knows how he really thought Jim would end up. But here was, making a fortune sucking cock, and feeling pretty good about it. Ha, fuck you Frank.

Jim angrily pushed thoughts of his stepdad out of his mind, and rubbed his face against the gownie's crotch. The gownie sighed, and Jim smiled. This guy was nice. Jim didn't have anything to trust but his instincts, and his instincts were usually right. This guy was better than the rest of the scum out there.

He kissed the base of the gownie's cock and licked all the way up and down. He swirled his tongue around the head.

The gownie wrapped his hands around Jim's head and groaned. Jim chuckled. "Calm down buddy," he said. And then he took the whole thing in his mouth, all the way down to the base.

Jim sucked contentedly on the gownie's cock. He could do this for hours. The gownie wasn't up for the challenge, though, and he panted and thrashed and struggled to talk.

"Ti... Tigh..." he kept starting and flailing.

Jim pulled off the gownie's cock with a "pop" and smirked up at him. "Do you want more?"

"Yes!"

Jim rose up and undid his tight black jeans. "How much more?" he asked coyly.

"Dammit Tiberius!" the gownie cried. He reached out big, capable hands. "Get back over here for fuck's sake!"

Jim grinned, stepping out of his jeans. He strode over and straddled the gownie's lap. "It'll cost you all the rest of your credits. Everything you had in your wallet."

"I don't care!"

Jim grinned even wider, reached behind the gownie's head and produced a condom from a stash tucked behind the couch.

McCoy was dazed as he watched Tiberius put the condom over his poor, neglected cock, and sit back on his lap, legs akimbo, arms around McCoy's neck. His breath was on his face and he was so close, and McCoy didn't realize how much he had missed human skin touching his.

"Tiberius..." he started, but he didn't know what to say. He just wanted to say someone's name.

Tiberius eased himself down onto McCoy's cock, with a satisfied closed-eyed grin. "Oh," he breathed. "You're such a good size. Nice and thick. This is good," eyes still closed, he rocked on McCoy's lap, the two of them barely remaining on the couch.

McCoy rubbed his face against Tiberius', and there were little bites and licks, but no mouth kisses. McCoy wrapped his arms around the other man (who really wasn't that much younger than him from this close), and held him as close as he could given how Tiberius was bent. He wanted the closeness so badly. "Leonard," he said. "Call me Leonard."

"Okay Leonard," the stripper had a laugh in his voice as he bounced on McCoy's cock. He never opened his eyed and he never stopped smiling, enjoying himself genuinely. "Call me Jim."

"Jim," Leonard whispered into the other man's ear.

Jim almost sobbed, but it was a happy sob, and he buried his face in McCoy's neck as he bounced faster and faster on the man's lap. "Yes, god, yes Leonard,"

They moved together minutely, rocking back and forth, and back and forth, and faster and faster until McCoy couldn't handle it any longer.

"Dammit! Jim!" and he came.

Jim smiled at him, slowing down his rocking, teasing out every little aftermath. "Fuck me Leonard," he said. "That was effing good times."

McCoy could only nod absently. Jim climbed off him and pulled his jeans on. He fished around for McCoy's wallet and took all the remaining credit chips, pocketing them.

"Thanks Leonard," he said. "I had a good time," he put the whisky bottle next to McCoy's listless hand and patted the man's cheek. "Hope we'll see you again at Shotgun Jenny's."

Then he punched in a code on a locked door, opened it, and disappeared. McCoy realized that Jim was still hard when he had climbed off. He felt a pang of guilt, but it was buried deep beneath the afterglow.

-

A few days later Jim met Captain Pike after one of his usual bar fights. Afterwards he lay awake in his tiny roach-infested bachelor apartment and looked down at his body and thought, for the first time in a long time, maybe he was actually better than that.

When Jim showed up at the transport to meet Captain Pike he knew what everyone else would think. He put on his best swagger and his best "fuck you" glare, and was up for the challenge. He knew they thought he was some backwater townie and he knew he would prove them wrong, even if it only was with his fists.

So it was too his shock that Leonard, the gownie trick, showed up on the shuttle and took a seat next to him. He was momentarily stunned but set his jaw and put on his smirk. Leonard didn't seem to remember him, and the guy was pretty hammered that night. Maybe he would never remember. That would suit Jim just fine.

And if he did remember - oh well. If it was another person Jim had to beat up to get respect, just because he had let the guy fuck him once didn't mean he'd go soft on him.

(Neither the beating nor the softness happened, but the respect and more than one instance of fucking did.)

THE END


End file.
